


Requiem

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: General, Post-War of the Ring, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 09:12:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3762572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faramir confronts his demons</p>
            </blockquote>





	Requiem

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Faramir woke, every nerve aquiver.  From deep in his memory and close  
to his heart, the rumble rolled across his covers to echo off the walls  
of this cave.  He held his breath, listened again.  Again it sounded.  
Once.  Twice.  Three times.  A mutter, a grumble, an indelicate snort  
and all went still.  Awake, Rangers were silent. Asleep they fell to  
the level of other men.  Faramir turned over, pulled the blanket high  
on his shoulder, closed his eyes and allowed his dreams to take him.

This time Faramir sat up straight, blinking at the full moon streaming  
in the window.  Window?  Where he remembered a bench, stood a chair,  
shelves, a wall hanging.  Where his mind wanted to place the table  
which held maps he and Boromir studied together the times fortune  
placed them both at Henneth-Annun, sat a carved chest, ornate, after  
the fashion of the Haradrim.  Spoils of war, Boromir called it when he  
first dropped it in his chamber.  Faramir feigned disinterest, but in  
secret, while all slept, he took the time to trace the carvings, admire  
the intricate patterns — nights like tonight when memory and time  
converged, the sound rasping across his ears.

He yanked the quilt from the bed and wrapped it around him to sit by  
the chest now.  He mourned the loss of sleep.  Night after night the  
noise came, resisting his best efforts.  Warm milk did not help.   
Strong drink did not help. A passionate tryst did not help.  Even  
reading the long chronicle of the begats of the Kings of the West did  
not help.  Faramir pulled paper and ink from the desk beside, huddled  
into his quilt, dipped the nib and wrote:

"Who knew so sonorous a noise would flow from so small a thing? The  
memory and its reality fain chills my spine. We took our oaths.   
Forever unto eternity we promised, but I did not think that night would  
uncloak the price I had to pay. It's the trumpet of mumakil, the beat  
of fell wings, the thud of Grond which haunts my dreams and drives me  
from my bed.  I would not that we were separated, my boon companion and  
I.  But whether my revelation shall be greeted with cold disdain or  
compassion, in the morning, I must tell my fair one, that she really  
does snore."


End file.
